


Twelve Weeks Old

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Abuse, Animal Traits, Cat Jensen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt Jensen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kitten Jensen, M/M, Not Really Character Death, POV Jensen, Protective Jared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kitten on a farm is never bored, not when there are so many things to do and a secret spot to visit. When a box appears in the barn one day, the kitten's world changes drastically. When no child chooses him, the farmer picks him up. At twelve weeks old and the runt of the litter, he is placed in a bag to be drowned. Life on this farm is difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Weeks Old

**Author's Note:**

> gah. i was working on a chapter of House when inspiration struck for this fic. it is only a one shot. you can view it as a sequel to "Look, Look." imagine that Jared from that fic was reincarnated into this human and jensen from that fic was reincarnated into this kitten. 
> 
> i tried something new with the dialogue here, having it take up most of the fic. i hope it works.
> 
> read the tags for warnings, but there's a happy ending this time. <3
> 
> thanks for reading!

Out on the field is where he is the happiest.

Where the grass extends as far as he can see and the soil underneath his paws is the warmest. It’s where his mother tells him no kitten should stray to but what does he care? What’s going to hurt him out here? A flower?

His tail swishes as he pushes forward, past the familiar gathering of flowers shaped like the moon when it’s full. The wind of a clear day breezes through his tawny coat, tickling the white spots on his belly. Sniffing here and there, he can already tell he’s near water—clear, cold, abundant water. It isn’t anything like the bowl of water the farmer puts out every day for them and the dogs. He doesn’t have to fight for access to this water or smell the dogs’ breath while he takes a sip.

This is his secret place.

What to do first!

He climbs the rock near the stream and scratches with his claws until he feels like a nap. His mother tells him and his siblings to take naps throughout the day and save their energy for the mice in the barn and it is such a chore to sleep. No, he prefers to take naps on his own terms. He rests so he can play more, not so he can chase around the mice. How boring is that, anyway? So, he may not be as large as his siblings or as fast, but he could catch a mouse if he really wanted to. If he truly, sincerely wished it he could stalk one in the hay, pounce, and snatch it up in his mouth. His mother says they are mousers and the farmer expects them to contribute to the farm this way. But he would much rather stay here, napping by the stream on a warm, flat rock, stretched out so that his paws extend up and up and up.

Yes, this is much better than being in the dreary barn with the large, loud things with small eyes called horses or the dogs who like to brag endlessly about how many fluffy things—things they call sheep—they herded into a pen that day.

Travels take him up the stream and down, where every day he discovers something new. There’s a butterfly that he chases, fascinated by its wings. Small mounds of insects that he tries to eat don’t taste very good and they itch in his fur so he learns to stay away, even if they do amuse him with their movements. He cleans his paws while sitting beside the stream, his ears twitching at every new sound.

The sweetest, tastiest patch of grass is found on a cloudy day. He purrs as the blades caress and scratch at his whiskers and the edge of his mouth. Snip, snip, snip—he chews through the stalks and bats at them when they move. Another rock is found, this one further out, and he rubs along it, marking it as his and taking advantage of the pleasant feeling on his back and tail. Sometimes the farmer pets the dogs this way; he doesn’t much pay attention to them and his mother says he mustn’t mind that. He doesn’t mind it entirely, but he would like someone to scratch behind his ears every so often. His mother says that is coddling. Of course, he would argue that it is merely convenience. He can only reach so far back with his own paws. These are thoughts he has learned to keep to himself.

From his perch on this new rock, he spots birds. Mewing, he calls out to them. Stop flying so high! Their legs are fat and their feet are s skinny. He would like to chew on them, if only they would cease to spend so much time up where he cannot jump.

At night, his mother pulls them in for a bath. He wrestles away from her after a few licks and tumbles out of her reach. He can clean himself, thank you.

Two days later, one of the dogs reports a sighting of something strange and new on the front lawn. All they can read is the number six. What must it mean? It has to be important, because everyone in the barn notices that the farmer is wearing a hat today. Sometimes, when he wears his hat, it’s a sign that the horse with the prettiest mane will be taken out for a ride. The farmer and his wife will take a basket with them and won’t return until sunset, laughing and leaning forward, closer into each other.

But the black horse isn’t taken out when the farmer comes in. Instead, a box is placed in the corner of the barn, with some hay thrown in. Two bowls—one with water and one with pellets—are placed down inside the curious box.

One of the dogs pulls aside their mother and information is exchanged. Her tail swishes in anger. Every kitten is told to hide—hide now!

He tries. He tries to run out of the barn and towards his secret spot.

If only he hadn’t been born last. Maybe then his paws would not be so small. Rough hands grab the wrong part of his scruff and he hisses in pain. Lifted up, he is placed into the box, tossed against the hay, tumbling in along with his siblings but not their mother. That’s okay, he thinks, mewing with his siblings, they can figure out a way. They can dig their way out. They can jump. They can climb. They can…

The barn doors open. His ears go back. He hears many sets of footsteps, many more than the farmer’s.

Suddenly, all sorts of hands are over and inside the box. Shrill, high pitched laughter causes his tail to puff up and his eyes to go wide. In horror, he looks up. These are little people. Small farmers. They laugh and pinch and squeal and grab at his tail and his ears. They push down a few of his siblings. They shove at each other to get a better view. All that can be done is to try and hide in the hay, which a few of them attempt, but the hay is quickly pushed aside. Louder voices loom over the box and speak to the farmer.

One by one, he watches his siblings disappear, high into the air.

Shaking his head, dizzy and frightened, he curls up in the corner where there is the most hay.

But where are they going?

When a hand reaches back for him, he does what he feels is right. He swats at it, scratching it with his claws. Stay away. His tail and ears were warnings and if they cannot understand that, then his claws must be used. It’s what his mother taught him. It’s what he knows.

“Oh, we don’t want that one!”

“Lulu, honey, don’t cry…”

“It s-s-scratched me, mommy!”

“John, she’s bleeding. Where’s my purse?”

“Haven’t you got any more?”

“That’s the last of this litter, I’m sorry.”

“Honey, maybe you’ll get along with him better in a few days.”

“John! That one scratched her! Let’s go. Lulu, sweetie, calm down, I have Dora bandaids in the car.”

“Sorry about that. He’s the runt of the litter anyway, better off that you folks wait for the next batch.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty small. Listen, will you call us first next time around?”

“Of course. Joni’s got your number. Thanks for coming by.”

“Great, thank you. What are you gonna do with that one?”

“Oh, him? Well, not much of a mouser. Don’t have time or need for another cat. I kept Tiger around because she’s a great mouser. I dunno. We’ll see.”

 

The barn doors open and shut. A while later, they open again.  

Over the edge of the box, a hand appears, gloved and rough.

A new voice can be heard from the sack he’s dumped into. He fights and mews and twists and thrashes.

“Oh, Paul, do you have to?”

“Got to. No place on this farm for a runt.”

“It’s so… medieval, Paul!”

The sack is swung and he is moved. The crunch of gravel can be heard. He calls out for his mother, apologizing for always squirming away from her when she tried to clean him. If he’s sorry, doesn’t that mean he gets another chance? It’s dark in the sack and he can’t breathe and there is nothing solid underneath him.

“What would you have me do, Jodi? Can’t be soft on a farm and you know that. You gonna be this way every time I gotta put down an animal?”

“No, I most certainly will not! But this is a kitten. Please, Paul.”

“First it’s a kitten, next time it’s gonna be one of the cows and you’re gonna bitch.”

“I promise, I won’t!”

All the voices stop and the sack goes still. He takes the opportunity to fight and bite at the fabric. Out, out, out…

“Paul!”

Up.

He floats up, like one of the clouds he’s watched from his rock. Up and up—higher than he’s ever jumped. His paws flex but his claws are stuck in the fabric and he can’t move. With a panicked, broken cry, he realizes that he’s falling.

The water is cold around him. It rushes over the sack and into his nostrils, cramming into his ears. His body hits rocks; although he tries, he can no longer make any sounds. It only takes a few seconds for him to realize how familiar the water closing in on him is. He knows it.

It’s his secret place.

 

“Ain’t much to look at, is he?”

“Don’t say that, please.”

“Just sayin’ the truth.”

“He won’t eat.”

“Hmm.”

“I tried everything, Jared. I just... I dug him out of the stream myself and I’ve tried...”

“Jo, why’d you marry him?”

“…I-I tried feeding him with an eye dropper.”

“Uh huh.”

“Maybe if you try…”

“This is what you called me over for?”

“Yes. I can’t keep him. I can’t. You… you got a nice little place in town, don’t you?”

“Little is right, dunno about nice. Now, wait a minute, you know Mrs. Robertson won’t let me keep a pet around. She hates cats.”

“Oh, oh, I already spoke with her. I’ll pay the ten dollars extra every month. Please, Jared. You could… you could use some company.”

“I meant company of the human kind, Jo. Couldn’t you get me a dog instead?”

“Don’t!”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t…”

“I’m sorry, Jo.”

“…”

“Jo?”

“I thought he… thought he just needed someone to love him good enough. Thought I could love him good enough.”

“Oh.”

“You shouldn’t ask those things, Jared.”

“No. Guess I shouldn’t.”

“Please take him.”

“I’ve never had a cat.”

“They’re easy. You two will be fine.”

“Well… if the little guy can survive being tossed into a stream, I guess he can survive a newbie cat parent. Great. Now I’m gonna be the gay guy in town with a cat.”

“Oh, hush. See? He likes you already.”

“I just had a tuna sandwich.”

“Thank you.”

“Mmhmm.”

 

Fingers. That’s what these are called.

They tap his nose and scratch under his chin. They taste a little sweet. Interesting.

Something long and pointy is pushed into his mouth. It squirts out liquid that tastes like watery milk. He doesn’t like the taste of it and bats at the pointy thing so it will leave. Another few drops and he shakes his head, successfully getting the thing to get away from his mouth.

A voice is heard. It isn’t mean or loud or scary. It’s actually… kind of nice. “He hates the formula stuff, mom. What do I do? Jo couldn’t get him to eat either.”

From far away, another voice can be heard. This one is a little higher, but it sounds muffled. “Try another brand, Jay. Maybe it’s the blend. Other than that, I’m not sure. I never finished vet school, you know that. What kind of cat is he?”

Gently, the fingers pet the top of his head. “Yeah, mom, I know. He’s just a barn cat.”

“Is he a black cat?”

“Nope. He’s kind of brown. Like caramel.”

“You’re not gonna call him Caramel, are you?”

“I have to name him?”

“What! Of course you do! What, were you just gonna keep calling him Cat?”

“Well, I don’t see any _other_ cat around here so why not?”

“Go out and get the milk, Jay, quit flapping your mouth.”

A final pat is given and the fingers go away. “Yes ma’am.”

“When you come back, I’ll have a name for him. Send me pictures!”

“Okay, okay, jeez. You’d think this was your grandchild or something.”

“Maybe if my children weren’t such spinsters, I’d have an actual grandchild to dote on. Your kitten will have to do. Is he listening to us on the phone?”

“He’s sleeping, mom, and you know… he’s a cat. I doubt he cares.”

“Cats are smarter than you think!”

“He sleeps in a shoebox.”

“Shut your mouth, boy. I bet he’s smarter than you were at that age.”

Some items nearby are moved around but nothing is thrown or slammed. The jingle of keys can be heard. “Whatever, mom. Look, I’m gonna go out and get this little guy a few things. You think he’ll need toys? I gotta buy a litter box, kitten food, that milk stuff, and some nail clippers. For someone so small, he sure is expensive.” This new place is not very large. It smells nothing like the farm. There are no dogs here, no horses, and no other animals. At first, this seems lonely. Sad. But he takes a second to think about that. The most pervasive sound is this new person and the voice that comes out of the tin they are speaking into. This person has a kind voice. It’s happy. It’s the kind of sound that the sun would be, if it could be a sound.

“You have to name him, Jay. You can’t keep calling him ‘cat’”

“Ugh, mom. Fine. I kind of sort of had a name picked out anyway. Don’t laugh.”

“Please don’t name him something crude. I don’t find it very funny that your brother named his dog Wiener.”

“That’s the _best_ name for a dog, mom!”

“Jared.”

“Oh, fine. His name is Jensen. I’m gonna get a collar and a tag for him while I’m out, too. Dark green, I think. That’ll suit him.” The fingers appear once more, this time they start at his nose and go all the way to his tail. He stretches in response, beginning to purr but not quite having the energy to continue.

“Jensen. Hmm.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, no. It’s just… I’ve never heard of a cat called Jensen before.”

“I want him to be unique. He’s not just another Mittens or Fluffy.”

“Heh.”

“What.”

“Remember when I found you playing with your sister’s Barbie?”

“Must you bring that up? I was six.”

“Sweet pea, I’m your mother, it is my right to bring up whatever I want from your childhood. Anyway, do you remember what you named her?”

“Uh… Barbie?”

“Nope. You named her Betty because you thought she looked like a Betty, not a Barbie.”

“Does this have a point, mom, or are you telling stories to your book club again?” The fingers scratch the underside of his chin. “Jensen suits him. It’s a good name.”

“Yes, Jay, it is. Jensen and Jared.”

“Hey, why does he get top billing? I’m the schmuck who’s gonna be scooping his poop.”

“That’s exactly why. He’s got you wrapped around his paw by now, I can tell.”

“He does not. He’s a stinky little thing that’s gonna end up hogging the entire bed and sleeping on my face and throwing up in my shoes.”

“Go to the store, it’s getting late.”

“It’s six in the evening.”

“The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back and settle in with your boy.”

“…yeah. Thanks, mom.”

“You’re welcome, hun.”

“Can I call you later?”

“Do you have to ask?”

 

A door opens and shuts. The voices leave. Everything around him is quiet.

He peers over the edge of the container the person has placed him in and sees that he is on a table, beside a window. The container doesn’t have hay; it has a blanket that smells like fresh grass. Little by little, his heart beat slows back to normal, any sign of danger slips away. His ears relax and he sniffs around.

Sleep is chosen. He will need his energy for later. Maybe there are mice here. He can do that for this person. He will do whatever is needed of him here.

The sun and the blanket keep him warm.


End file.
